Of Workbenches and Hammers
by Tom T. Thomson
Summary: After the Pillars are restored and all is finally right in Nosgoth, a blacksmith recalls what was and what is now in Baal's blacksmith's shop. One shot.


The sound of white hot metal being beaten echoed dully through the large smithy. Any normal smith did not work metal that hot, but this one had always been different. The immense flames produced a thick smoke that made it impossible to see the high vaulted ceiling and the heat raked at his flesh. And he was on the other side of the room.

The pounding stopped. He could imagine the smith eyeing the rough blade, trying to decide if it needed to be refolded or if it could be shaped. The pounding began again and he inhaled deeply, letting his yellow eyes close.

He remembered that smell; a mix of smoke, coal, and the tiniest hint of burning feathers. It took him back to a time when he had worked with his own metal.

From his vantage point, he watched a white column of steam race into the air. For a moment, as it cleared, the space was devoid of any smoke. For a moment, he smiled.

Scraping of coal against coal let him know the Ancient he was observing had started to heat his next piece of steel. Strange that after so long, Baal could go back to the forge so easily when he found himself repulsed by the idea of stepping back into the smithy. But Baal had always been strange. Janos had tried to connect to him as had the Seer but neither had any luck. Even Raziel, who had seemed to be able to reach the blacksmith during the Restoration of the Pillars, was being ignored like everyone else.

At first it seemed that he was merely going back to the way he had been before the War but it soon became clear that this was a new Baal that none of them had seen before. The pre-War Baal had eaten, slept, and, on occasion, stargazed. This new Baal did not eat, nor did he sleep and he was never out of his blacksmith's shop. Before the War, Baal kept his shop clear of most things with tools neatly away and plans for any projects placed in one of the large book cases along a wall. Now every surface in the shop covered in something: a half finished project here, plans for a new item there, and tools that would be needed to complete them sitting near each. An empty workbench was unheard of.

He had worked in the smithy, all those years ago, and Baal had been hard pressed to give him a corner of his shop; not because of any clutter but merely because Baal's shop was _his_.

The beating started again, sharper this time and he knew the metal was yellow-orange. After a few moments, the sound of scrapping reached his ears and from experience he knew Baal was removing slag from the iron with a steel rasp.

Part of him wanted to roll up his sleeves and pick up a hammer, start a project of his own. He chuckled to himself; it had been so long since he had done any metal work, he knew he would have to start with the most simple of shapes and work his back up. The part of him that urged him to work reminded him how to hold a rod in just the right way to perform an upset, making nails would require that particular technique. It was much more simple to turn a slat of metal into a spiral, as long as he remembered to bend the tip over first with a chisel. Drawing did not need to be refreshed; he had done that for as long as he could remember.

Drawing was needed to make an edged weapon. The trick was sliding the hammer as one struck the metal.

The part of him that wanted to strike steel with a hammer told him that it would be easier to go back to than he thought.

The other part of him reminded him of severed heads and boiling flesh off of bone. It forced him to recall pulling punctured eyes away from skulls that had been unwilling to lose its sight. His stomach churned at the memory and he turned to leave.

He did not need to go back to that. Not that Baal would have ever let him have a workbench of his own. The old Baal had kicked and screamed as much as Baal could with shredded vocal cords could and he saw no reason why this new and impossible to deal with Baal would be any different, he told himself and turned to go. So engrossed in thought, he did not hear the sounds of the forge stop.

_Vorador? You are not staying?_

He looked back, surprised to see Baal standing not twenty feet before him, hammer and tongs held loosely at his sides. "No. I am not staying."

Baal nodded and Vorador swallowed hard; to have the Ancient's undivided attention was not something he had been able to get used to. He found himself unable to meet Baal's open gaze and let his focus fall on an empty workbench.

_Well, if you ever wish to come back, that bench is for you._

Vorador's lips twitched into the smallest smile as he listened to Baal's cloven feet walk away.

Maybe, he told himself as the sounds of metal being beaten resumed, this new Baal was not as impossible as he had thought.


End file.
